


calling at your doorstep

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hit, Raheem tries to figure out how he came to be living with Aleksandar Kolarov.</p><p>Turns out, a lot can change in six years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calling at your doorstep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



> Dear giftee! I loved your prompt so much, I had to write this treat. I hope you like it as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> Thanks to Merc, for making this a lot smoother than it would be otherwise. 
> 
> title is from [Spoonboy's Sweet Talking Child](https://spoonboy.bandcamp.com/album/colour-me-wednesday-split-lp)

 

 

They say that the only one who doesn’t see a Fellaini elbow coming is the referee. Except for how Raheem actually doesn’t see it, until it’s colliding full force with his temple. He blacks out instantly and so doesn’t have time to reflect on the irony.

  
  


*

  
  


Raheem wakes up in a room with white sheets and bright blue walls with unfamiliar people bustling around him. None of them are wearing lab coats, but he has a feeling that they’re doctors, which is confirmed when one immediately puts a latex gloved hand on his cheek and shines a bright light in his eyes. Presumably, an ordinary member of the public wouldn’t do that.

 

“Welcome back, Raheem,” the doctor says, distractedly. “You were out for a little while, gave us all quite a scare. How do you feel?”

 

Raheem blinks at the light in his eyes and tries to take stock of himself. “My head hurts,” he answers, because it’s true, and because the room is tilting wildly in front of his eyes, making him queasy, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

 

“Sounds like a concussion,” the doctor says, frowning, “Do you remember the hit?”

 

Raheem thinks for a moment and goes to shake his head, but the motion makes it worse. “No,” he says instead.

 

“I see,” the wrinkles around the doctor’s mouth deepen, “do you remember anything of the game at all?”

 

“No,” Raheem says, because he remembers a game against the Rovers reserves, but that was a day ago, and he scored three goals and an assist without injuries.

 

“Alright then. What is today’s date and the last thing you remember?”

 

Raheem hesitates for a moment before speaking. He thinks about asking for a glass of water first, because his mouth is dry except for the inexplicable taste of bile, but his mom always warned him to answer any questions the doctors ask as truthfully as possible.

 

“15th February, 2010. Signing a contract with Liverpool.”

 

“Oh, shit,” the doctor says. It’s unclear if it’s because of his words, or because Raheem throws up right after.

  
  


*

  
  


So it turns out that he’d been a little off on the date. 

 

Apparently the impact of the elbow or, of Raheem’s head hitting the floor, was so strong it gave him a concussion that came with a side-dish of amnesia. He’s a Manchester City player now, which is something he still doesn’t know how to feel about. He supposes one northern city is as good as the next one. They both aren’t the London he’s familiar with. City doesn’t exactly have the title record he was hoping for, but a professional contract is a professional contract.

 

Raheem can’t follow everything in the resulting confusion; there’s people cleaning up around him, and people asking him questions, and then asking each other questions, all in one great big kaleidoscope of humanity, spinning around him. He’s taken to the hospital for a CT scan and more tests. They ask him questions about events he doesn’t know and about people he’s never heard of.

 

Mostly, he just really wants his mum.

 

He’s gathered that he’s got no bleeding and no tumors in his brain, which he supposes is nice. No word on when he’d be able to go home. He’s not even sure where home is at this point.

 

*

 

Through it all, there’s a man.

 

Raheem notices him when he comes in. He’s tall, taller than all the doctors and nurses, and there are tattoos visible under the edge of his jacket. Nobody asks him to leave. In fact, after a quiet exchange, everyone acts like he’s supposed to be here, in Raheem’s room during his examination.

 

He steps closer when things start winding down, reaches out a hand that Raheem tentatively takes.

 

“I’m Aleks,” he says. His accent is strange; his vowels fall together like stones, sharp and sudden.  “It looks like there’s nothing wrong with you, except for the memory loss. They gave me permission to take you home, if you want to?”

 

Raheem wants.

  
  


*

  
  


They’re quiet in the car. There’s music playing on the radio, but it’s unlike anything Raheem’s used to, all trumpets and wailing women. Aleks doesn’t sing along. He doesn’t know why he expected him to.

  
  


*

  
  


Home turns out to be Aleks’ house. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, all white picket fences and a big back yard. It’s beautiful. It is exactly what Raheem would have chosen for himself if he had the means and the imagination. He feels instantly at ease when he walks through the doors, which consequently makes his hackles rise, adding to the already potent mix of confusion and uncertainty and fear boiling in his gut.

 

Aleks disappears into another room, presumably the kitchen, and in the sudden absence of direction, Raheem curls in on himself on the comfortable couch in the living room, pulling at the blanket that’s bunched up on it instead of folded. He’s starting to feel the cold now, even though the house is warm.

 

Aleks finds him like that, cocooned in the blanket and trembling, and his eyebrows draw up into an expression that should be a frown, but is somehow softened by the slackness of his mouth, or maybe the slope of his eyelids, Raheem isn’t exactly sure, he just knows what it means, and the thought of it is weird, that he can read this stranger’s expression so well. This whole situation is weird, he doesn’t even know Aleks’ surname, or his profession, or anything about him, this could be a trap, this could be-

 

“Have you spoken to your mum yet?” Aleks asks, softly and when Raheem shakes his head, he mutters something sharp under his breath and pulls out his phone. He pushes a few buttons before handing it to Raheem, who clutches it to his ear and waits. It rings a few times before his ear is filled with the familiar sound of his mother’s voice and he closes his eyes reflexively.

 

When he opens them again, Aleks is gone. He’s grateful. He doesn’t remember if Aleks had seen him cry before, but he doesn’t want him to see it now.

  
  


*

  
  


“Are you a football player too?”

 

“I am. We’re teammates.”

 

“Oh. What do you play?”

 

“I’m a forward. You’re on my left wing.”

 

“Are we any good?”

 

Aleks tilts his head to the side, like he’s considering it for a moment, before he smiles and says, “We’re getting there.”

  
  


*

  
  


There’s a list of questions that Raheem’s made up in his head and is too afraid to ask.

 

It goes as follows:

 

  * Why are you my second emergency contact?
  * When did we start living together? 
  * How did you learn to make my tea perfectly?
  * Why am I not in the picture of you winning the Premier League trophy?
  * What does the tattoo on your arm say?
  * Why are most of my clothes in your room instead of the spare bedroom?
  * Am I in love with you?
  * Do you like dogs?
  * Why do you keep looking at me like that?



  
  


*

  
  


The next day they eat dinner together and it isn’t quiet. Aleks seems willing to answer questions, but warns him about the doctors saying that he should let his memories come back to him naturally, so Raheem limits himself to shallow questions instead. Favorite colors, childhood teams and memories, things like that.

 

He’s caught up in the story Aleks is telling, when finds himself staring at his mouth instead of listening. He wonders, distractedly, what Aleks’ stubble would feel like against his mouth and realizes with sudden clarity that he knows. 

 

He knows it feels a little sharp, but not unpleasant, and that the beard burn doesn’t show much on his skin, but that he can feel it afterwards.

 

It feels like it should be a step forward, but it only brings him more confusion.

 

“Raz? Are you okay?” Aleks asks with an expression that Raheem knows is concern, but looks blank to mostly everyone else.

 

“I’m fine,” Raheem says, tries for a smile that feels more like a grimace. Aleks doesn’t call him out on it, just nods once, sharply.

 

His eyes are very blue.

  
  


*

  
  


Why do you keep looking at me like that?

  
  


*

  
  


Raheem has an iPad and a phone, but he doesn’t remember his password for them, and he doesn’t want to ask Aleks, strangely worried that Aleks will know it and leave him with even more confused feelings.

 

So he covertly memorizes Aleks’ and borrows his laptop while he’s away at training. Raheem isn’t expected there until his memories come back and there’s no set timeline for his recovery. Mostly, he’s just restless and ready to play again. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. He and Aleks traded some passes in the backyard to test it and it was fine. He’s faster and stronger than he remembers being, his passes sharper, though that could also just be Aleks on the other end. 

 

He wants to play. He wants to play with Aleks. Wants to see what they can do.

 

So he googles himself.

 

His wikipedia article is informative, but ultimately tells him nothing. His stats were good and apparently he disappointed at the Euros, but that was all.

 

The first few articles are fine. They’re not flattering, but he can tentatively accept that. You can’t succeed in sport without learning to take a bit of criticism. But then the words start piling up. Wasted potential, they call him. Juvenile, flashy, too hasty and greedy. Uncoachable. 

 

Difficult.

 

And then he does something that Raheem at 22 has learned not to do, but hadn’t yet at 17. He reads the comments.

 

His hands shake. His mouth goes dry when he swallows. The images rise in front of his eyes threatening to overwhelm him. His jersey, catching fire like lighter fluid. His name, synonymous with snakes. Bafflingly, his sink. The threats. Calling him a monkey, calling him-

 

He’s scared. More than when he was playing against the bigger boys with chips on their shoulders. More than when they landed in London that first time, clutching his mum’s hand and shaking when the cold rain hit his skin. He’s never been so scared in his life.

 

Aleks finds him like that. Staring blankly at the opposite wall, wrapped up in a blanket and trembling.

 

“Raheem?” he says, softly, “Did anything happen?”

 

“You didn’t tell me,” Raheem says, hears his voice as if from far away, surprised by how steady it sounds. “They hate me.”

 

Aleks doesn’t say anything, just drops his bag and sits next to him, gently reaching out to touch his shoulder. His fingers are warm through the thin cotton T-shirt.

 

“You’re safe,” he says, “you’re safe here. We’ll protect you.”

 

And Raheem doesn’t know who ‘we’ is, but he lets himself be pulled into a hug, lays his head on Aleks’ shoulder, his warmth surrounding. “They hate me,” he whispers into Aleks’ collarbone, “they hate me.” He feels it settle in between his bones, ripping at the tender flesh of his insides. 

 

His heart held the Liverbird once and then it didn’t, burning up into ashes, into anger, and resentment, the kind that festers. 

  
  


*

  
  


You never walk alone, they screamed, you’ll never walk away.

  
  


*

  
  


Why am I not in the picture of you winning the Premier League trophy?

 

(...)

 

When did we start living together?

  
  


*

 

And this is how it ends:

 

Raheem walks into the kitchen one morning and realizes it’s their kitchen. He remembers how he insisted on having all the modern appliances even though he and Aleks are awful cooks. He remembers which mug is his favorite. He remembers how Aleks likes his coffee.

 

And Aleks is making breakfast, humming tunelessly under his breath, just in a pair of ratty old sweatpants, his tattoos on full display. The ink is dark against his pale skin, warmed by the rare morning sunlight.

 

Raheem will remember, suddenly, that he can kiss him. That he’s allowed to press his boyfriend against their kitchen counter and slot their mouths together, feeling the scrape of stubble familiar against his cheek. 

 

So he will.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters between kisses, and “I couldn’t remember and you kept looking at me, and I couldn’t remember.”

 

“Welcome back,” Aleks whispers back, and “I missed you,”, and “I always want to keep looking at you.”

  
  


*

  
  


Am I in love with you?

 

(...)

 

Yes.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- Raheem signed for Liverpool in February 2010, from QPR  
> \- Aleks signed to City from Lazio the same year, in July  
> \- Raheem signed for Manchester City in 2015, after a long dispute over his contract. He consequentially got labelled as greedy and a snake, and people sent him death threats and called him racist names over twitter. It's nasty.  
> \- After England flunked out of the Euros 2016, Raheem was branded as the scapegoat. The Daily Mail posted a long and ridiculous article about how he was bragging about his expensive sink a few days after they came home. I'd link you, but I don't want to give them the views. But the article is significant, because it finally seemed to draw people's attention to the fact that his treatment was disproportionally harsh.


End file.
